Sometimes (I say generously, as really it's more like "multiple times daily,") Poppy cries for no reason. She's fed, she's burped. She has a clean diaper. She's well-rested and has been cuddled for a satisfactory-even-to-the-neediest-cuddler number of hours. She just needs to cry. The breast doesn't calm her. Nor does her paci or the jiggle or the pat or the sway or the jiggle-pat-sway. Lullabies infuriate her. The rocking chair is her nemesis. She's offended by stories and baths and baby massage. Most of the time I can pop her in the wrap and carry on with my day and she eventually calms down or I go deaf. But sometimes I need to put her down somewhere safe and walk away and count to ten very slowly and take deep breaths and remind myself that it's nothing personal. Tonight was one of those nights. Grady asked me why I was crying and I told him Poppy was crying and I didn't know what she needed. He looked at me like I was dense. "She needs extra love," he told me matter-of-factly.